Lost But Not Forgotten
by dracademented
Summary: Envy is one of the strongest emotions known to us; as strong, and sometimes stronger, than love itself. Envy can destroy all that you are, all that you have, all that you love, even as it heals others. Beware the green-eyed monster.


Disclaimer: I own nothing! Oh, except for Anton. I most certainly do own him. :P

**Author's Note:** I just want to say, before anyone fills my reviews with it, that I am one of those HP fans that pretends OotP **never happened**. If you disagree with that outlook, I respect that, but please leave me to my delusions. I like the happy little castle of denial that I live in, alright? And there's not much in here that crosses any of the facts presented in that book anyway, except for a few abstract things.

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So stupid, how could she have been so stupid? She'd had him, the one that everyone wanted, and she'd let him slip through her fingers. No, no, that wasn't right, either. She hadn't let him _slip_ away, she _thrown_ him away. She'd thrown away his silver hair and mercury eyes, his rare, lyrical laugh, his deep-rooted sense of honor and purity. She'd gotten scared, she'd started listening to her family and friends, and she'd thrown him away like one would a…She couldn't even think of a comparison, because no one in their right mind would throw Draco Malfoy away. No one. Not since he'd become a war hero, not since he'd become the patriarch of the Malfoy line.

But she'd loved him before all of that, when they were both still in school and life had looked so much clearer. She'd loved him from the moment that she'd seen him years and years ago when they were mere children, she'd loved him even though everyone had objected. Everyone except for, surprisingly, the other Slytherins. They had accepted her (sort of) after he had, even Blaise, who had hated her so viciously that she'd been scared to go anywhere alone for months. She'd asked Draco once why he loathed her so, and Draco hadn't answered, just gone blank and quiet in that way that only the true snakes could do.

But she'd heard them fighting one night when they'd thought that she was sleeping, and she'd been so shocked that she'd nearly given herself away by gasping and sitting upright. They _never_ fought, not even about her! Blaise would just leave whenever she was around and Draco would find him later, or he'd stay, shadowing his best friend as if he thought that she would try to hurt him. It had offended her then, but now she looked back and wondered. Isn't that exactly what she had done? Had Blaise known, even all of those years ago, just how much pain she would cause his silver prince? Had he known that she would betray him?

And she had, gods help her, she had.

They'd gotten together in their fifth year, and she'd been so jealous of Blaise, because he and Draco were so close when within the walls of Slytherin House, so very, very close that she hadn't ever believed that she could truly compete. But Draco had tried to divide his time between them equally, had tried until he'd exhausted himself and Blaise had refused to let him continue doing so. Biting back his pride for love of his friend, he'd started being decent to her, as politely civil as possible, and she'd tried to curb her jealously. But it was hard, so hard, harder than anything she'd ever attempted before, harder even than standing up to her family had been.

Because whenever Blaise would sit and braid Draco's hair for hours and hours in such elaborate, complicated plaits that she'd known she could never duplicate them, that platinum hair spread out over his velvet-covered lap like spill of starlight, she'd silently seethe. Or when Draco would look up and see Blaise doing something ordinary, like reading a book or playing chess with Pansy, and for a moment, just a swift, fleeting moment, his masks would fall and she would glimpse something unfathomable, something content and yet hungry, as if he desired Blaise's companionship more than he desired air, and she'd felt such hateful envy that it had burned her soul.

But she'd tried to pretend like she didn't want to gouge out the raven-haired Slytherin's eyes every time that she'd seen him, she'd tried to pretend that she didn't notice the way that they would have silent conversations born of some mind link that she couldn't share in. He'd held, and still held, parts of Draco that she'd never understood, parts too dark for her to comprehend and wrap her mind around, and she'd hated him for it, still hated him for it. But the worst had been the other Slytherins' whispers, their curious, angry whispers. Whispers demanding why she had to be let in, whispers demanding why their leaders couldn't just take that final step and become lovers.

They'd wanted so desperately to replace her with Blaise, wanted so desperately to see the Malfoys and Zabinis joined again in such a way for the first time in centuries. They'd wanted it so badly that many of the females had said they would bear heirs for them without any wedding vows, without the binding oaths of marriage. They'd wanted it so badly that three had even tried to kill her, and would have succeeded had Draco not heard of their plans, as he heard of everything within the walls of his House, and stopped them. They'd wanted it so badly that none had been able to keep the quiet loathing out of their eyes.

So maybe 'accept' wasn't the right word. No, because they had _never_ accepted her, not really. None but for Draco and Pansy. It had taken a year to win Pansy over, a year of failed conversation attempts and futile offerings of help with their spellwork, but she had in the end after Draco had come as close to begging as he ever had, asking her to at least _try_. Pansy adored him, adored him enough to do as he requested, and they'd slowly, so very slowly, become friends during their sixth year. Pansy had never fully trusted her though, because she _did_ trust Blaise, and whatever it was about her that he disliked so much had made Pansy stay constantly on guard.

He was almost as revered by his Housemates as Draco was, and they were the backbone that made Slytherin House so strong. Many overlooked the snakes in favor of watching Harry Potter prance about doing his 'I'm-such-a-fucking-hero' act and getting so much favoritism piled on him from the teachers that they'd actually declared a Quidditch game canceled not a second before Draco had had the Snitch fluttering in his gloved hand. It just wouldn't do for a Malfoy to beat the Boy-Who-Lived in the middle of the war. But they'd been unable to do anything when Draco had caught the Snitch again in the rematch, except moan and complain.

They'd still found a way to steal the House Cup right from underneath the Slytherins' noses again, in the middle of the Leaving Feast in both their fifth and sixth years. She'd never seen the Slytherins so morbidly quiet before or after, and when she'd asked why they weren't destroying things and raising hell, Draco had said in an emotionless, dull voice that it didn't matter, because they'd had it taken from them every year since Harry had come to school. But they'd only seen it whisked away so rudely and publicly in their first year, when Dumbledore had given it to the Gryffindors without any explanation whatsoever to the Slytherins.

And she had to admit, she hadn't even thought of what that must have been like for them at the time. She hadn't even considered how she would have felt had the opposite been true, had she been sitting in a room filled with red and gold banners in their honor, only to have them disappear, the Cup they'd worked so hard for given to another House, and not even getting a reason for it until they'd heard the rumors. Rumors that the points given, the points which had let that other House win, hadn't even been school related, but more of that blatant favoritism. No, she'd been too happy that they'd won, no matter how unfairly, no matter how un-_Gryffindorly_.

But no one had liked to think of things like that, no one had liked to think that maybe, just maybe, _they_ were wrong. That the House they accused of treachery and prejudice was being treated far worse by the ones who did the accusing. Yes, the Slytherins believed in purity of blood, but most witches and wizards did. They just didn't say it aloud in public like the snakes did. And when you can trace your family bloodlines back for centuries, or even millennia, who wouldn't be proud? Who wouldn't want to preserve that? Who wouldn't be arrogant when they could feel the old power in their veins?

No matter what her family said to the press, they believed the same things, and they no more wanted their family tainted by muggle blood than the Malfoys or Zabinis did. She knew that _she_ would never marry or breed with a muggle or a mudblood, even though she'd dated a few in the last couple of years for appearance's sake. But the Slytherins didn't care for appearance, they never had, and they didn't care what the mudbloods thought of them. Because no matter what the muggle-lovers said, the purebloods were anything but dying out, and they outnumbered the muggleborns almost five to one. There were plenty of them.

After all, it's not like the purebloods in Britain were the only ones on the planet, although most pro-muggle supporters liked to try and make people think so. The Malfoy and Zabini families alone spanned the globe, branches upon branches, but the main branches had only had one heir apiece: Draco and Blaise. Both of whom were now the heads of their families ever since their fathers had died in the war. A lot of people had died in the war, mage and muggle alike. The war had quickly spilled over into both worlds, and in the end, Harry had been quite unhelpful. Okay, he'd been useless. He'd seen too much death and slaughter in too short a time period.

He hadn't been prepared for it. Most of them hadn't been. They'd had some pretty little images of war in their heads, images of glory and honor and fighting the good fight, but they'd quickly become disillusioned. It was either that, go mad, or die. Harry had gone mad. Hermione's death had been what had done it, what had sent him over the edge, and a raving lunatic was of no use to anyone. It had seriously demoralized their army, and they'd almost fallen apart before Padma had laid a suggestion at their feet. Her years and years of reading everything that she could get her hands on had paid off, and they'd been out of other options.

So Padma, along with seven others that she'd handpicked, had gone to Malfoy Manor, where Draco and Blaise had gathered all of the Slytherins, young and old, that didn't wish to fight for the Light or for some deranged halfblood. The Manor was a safe-haven, impenetrable, and the dark wizards and witches inside had been their last real hope. Because they simply didn't know how to beat a Dark Lord, and Dumbledore…Well, Dumbledore's old. Too old for battle and bloodshed, no matter what delusions people had about him being invincible. Sure, he'd beaten Grindelwald, but that had been in the forties, over five decades ago.

Other people, people who lived on their land and had sworn oaths of allegiance to them and their families, had also been under Draco and Blaise's protection, because they were Lords, and it was their duty, especially during wartime. But those people had been staying at the main Zabini estate, and at their various other properties and holdings. Only Slytherins and dark mages from other countries that passed a series of truth tests and swore blood oaths to them had been allowed within the Manor's wards. Until Padma had gone, sleeping outside the outer shields around the place, which had taken a month and a half to even find, until they'd agreed to meet with her.

They had flat-out refused her request at first, laughing in her face and mocking the Light until the others with her had been ready to leave, ready to give up. But then Padma had done something to gain their attention and respect, something that had, in the end, saved their world. She'd given them her soul. Literally. It was black, black magick, forbidden, but when she'd seen that nothing else would work, when she'd seen that her plan to ask them as the Lords of their lands would never work, she'd offered that most precious of gifts, and so had the other seven with her. They were frantic enough, desperate enough, wretched enough, scarred enough.

So they'd become slaves in order to keep their people free, their friends and families free, and Draco and Blaise had held to their end of the bargain. But they had not brought their armies; they had not brought a single soul besides themselves, refusing to put their people in a life-threatening situation for hypocrites that they cared nothing for. So they'd gone alone, alone into that dark fortress, and they'd come out with Voldemort's head and heart over three days later, long after they'd been presumed dead. Stunned was not a strong enough word for what everyone had been when they'd appeared at the Ministry with their prizes, soaked in gore.

They'd thrown the pieces at the Minister's feet, declared there and then that they would no longer follow any of their laws, nor would they save their pathetic arses again if they dug themselves into another hole. They'd been so furious, so very, very furious, and they had never spoken a word of what had happened during those three days, never spoken a word about how they'd defeated the Dark Lord. They'd been feared before, but it was nothing compared to how they were feared now, many proclaiming them as Lords of the Dark themselves. She didn't doubt that they were, not after that, not after she'd seen their eyes afterwards, if only from a distance.

But she'd loved Draco before all of that. Still loved him. Would always love him.

Which is why she was in France, on her way to the Manor and to her love. She would fall at his feet and beg him to forgive her, beg him to take her back, beg him to love her again as he once had. As he had before she'd crushed the love that he'd offered so hesitantly, as he had before she'd betrayed him in the foulest way. She didn't like thinking about it, but the coach that she was in rolled slowly down the drive, so slowly, and she couldn't stop the memories from resurfacing and killing her piece by piece. She couldn't stop the sickening guilt or the heart-wrenching regret. She couldn't stop reliving her mistakes.

The end of their time together had come in their seventh year, when her parents had tried even harder to get her to quit seeing him, filling her ears with lies and criticism and condemnation. But her jealousy over Blaise had been their undoing. Her jealousy had made her stupid, careless, thoughtless, and when she'd snuck in one night and seen them in bed together, curled up like two cats seeking warmth and affection, she'd snapped. It hadn't mattered that they'd both been wearing silky pajama pants (which was more than most Slytherins wore within their House's walls), it hadn't mattered that Draco never would have cheated on her, even with Blaise.

It hadn't mattered that they'd been doing absolutely nothing wrong, it hadn't mattered that she hadn't had any real evidence that they might have been before she'd arrived, and it hadn't even mattered that she'd known they slept like that often, just never in front of her. None of that had mattered. All she'd been able to think, able to hear, had been those poisonous whispers of her family and friends, had been that he'd been fucking around on her, even though deep inside, she'd known even then that it was just an excuse, an escape. An escape because she'd been growing more and more scared. Scared of how dark they were, of how cruel they could be.

Of how much black power she could feel within them both.

And she'd known, and still knew, that you couldn't have one without the other. Not if you wanted them whole, not if you wanted them sane. And while she couldn't have cared less about Blaise, she cared about Draco, wanted him happy. But she hadn't wanted him happy then, she'd wanted him hurt. She'd wanted to make him feel part of the envious agony that she'd carried with her for two years. So she'd set up a scene for him to catch her in, a scene that wouldn't fail to cut and sting like nothing else. She'd planned it perfectly, since hanging around Slytherins so long _had_ paid off, and she wished more than anything now that it hadn't.

But it had, gods save her, it _had_, her letter asking him to meet her finding him in time, and he'd walked into the Astronomy Tower expecting to have her arms around him, expecting to fuck her up against a wall until neither had much sentience left, until her throat was raw from screaming. But that hadn't been the case that dreaded night. Instead, he'd walked in to find her fucking Harry Potter hard and fast, screaming _his_ name as she came. Broken hearts are funny things, and had he been alone, he probably would have just left, left until he could think up suitable revenge, which wouldn't have taken all that long. But he hadn't been alone.

Blaise had been with him. Blaise had been with him to make sure that he made it to the Tower without any problems, because Blaise was simply over-protective of him like that. And that over-protectiveness extended from physical harm to mental harm. Hell, it doubled. She'd never seen him so enraged, enraged when it should have been Draco enraged, but Draco was just staring blankly, deadly, not moving a muscle until Blaise had sprung. He'd ripped Harry off of her and threw him into a row of desks hard enough to break bones before advancing on her with a terrifying smile and a fist full of darkfire.

She'd heard of seeing death in someone's eyes, but she'd always thought that meant _their_ death, as they themselves were dying. She hadn't imagined that _murder_ could manifest itself in such a way, hadn't imagined that she could see her bloody end in orbs the color of indigo. But she had, she'd seen that she was about to Pass, and she'd seen that he wouldn't stop until she was splattered in tiny bits all over the cold stone floor. But Draco was protective of him as well, and even through his own pain, he'd reached out and stopped that hand full of black flames, not to save her, but to save Blaise from Azkaban.

He'd drug him bodily from the room, using all of his considerable strength to keep him from fighting his way back to her, but those blue, blue eyes still haunted her dreams to this day. She would never escape _them_, and all she prayed for at the moment was that he would not be at the Manor when she arrived. Because as if that hadn't been bad enough, her wounded pride had made her even more foolish, and her last words to Draco, four days after they'd found her in that room with Harry, had been cold and heartless, remorseless and crueler than Draco had ever been to her. So much more that she felt herself filling with shame for the thousandth time.

"Why?" He'd asked, those silver eyes dulled to the iron gray of his younger years, his father's eyes.

"Why?" She'd taunted, firming her resolve with the countless images of him and Blaise in her mind's eye, and he'd nodded minutely. "Because I never really loved you, that's why." Lies, lies, all of it lies. "You were using me, and I was using you. Or are you not Slytherin enough to have figured that out by now?" Oh yes, she'd known how to slice deep into that icy exterior, because love gives you weapons that will hurt worse than any other. The trick is never using them. "Not _man_ enough? Harry was; he was _more_ than man enough to…_rise_ to the occasion. And do you know what's really fucking sad, Draco?"

"What's that?" He'd questioned, and his cool, unconcerned mask had infuriated her even farther, infuriated her enough to throw the thing that meant the most to him in his face atrociously and unforgivably.

"That Blaise knew. He knew all of this time, and you didn't listen to his warnings for once, didn't listen to the pleads from a person who never pleads for anything. You chose me over him, chose our…_love_ over him, and don't you think he knows that as well? Don't you think that it's killed him to watch us play our little game, to watch me steal you from him? He's held your devotion solely since your births, and yet you were so ready to split that devotion up, to deprive him of that which has always mattered the most to him. And for what, Draco, for _what_? For me. For two years of fucking me and pretending that we were more than we are. For that, you may have lost him forever, and I shall always count that as a victory."

He'd said nothing for so long that she'd given up on getting a response, turning away, turning her back on him, getting ready to leave. He was evil, her parents said so and they had never lied to her before. And hadn't she glimpsed his inner darkness during their time together? Hadn't she seen him call in darkfire? Hadn't she seen him bottle a lesser demon for later use, for who knew what? Hadn't she seen him casting black spells and becoming so full of that raging energy that he'd been glowing with it? But his words, so thick with meaning and enlightenment that they'd dug into her soul and made it bleed, had only barely reached her, like the first freezing touch of frost upon the leaves.

"I never used you. And you never had me. Not truly. But he has, and does, and when you regret this, when you see past your family's idiocy and blindness, it will be _him_ at my side, for my love of him has never lessened and he knows it. It will be him, always him, not you. Never you, not ever again."

Then he was gone, melting back into the shadows that he was so fond of, and she'd been left with his voice ringing in her ears, ringing of truth and something that she couldn't name, as if he'd just realized something, something much more important than her. She'd thought that he would try and talk her into coming back to him, that or curse her into oblivion, but he'd apparently had other things to do. It was too bad that Blaise had heard every word she'd said from down the hall. Because he hadn't had anything he'd rather do than torment her for her betrayal, torment her for causing pain to one that he held so dear.

He'd challenged her. He'd actually formally _challenged_ her, and the duel that had taken place had been anything but pleasant, at least not for her. She'd spent six weeks in the hospital after that messy incident, and some parts of her had never healed. Her nose was slightly crooked, her left leg bowed a bit, and every time a thunderstorm came, her bones ached so fiercely that it felt as if she were possessed. He'd done something to her, cursed her in some way, and there was nothing that she could do about it since they'd been in a dueling ring at the time. He could have killed her then, and as long as they'd been in the circle, it would have been perfectly legal.

There _was_ no murder once you crossed that line.

But he hadn't, he'd kept her alive, and she didn't know why, but she was grateful. No one else had ever left a circle after dueling him and still been breathing, or left one with Draco for that matter. She'd been so angry right afterwards, had been angry for a long time still, but now, now she just considered herself lucky. She'd grown up a lot in the last five years since they'd left Hogwarts, and Draco's prediction had come true. She'd seen past her family's foolishness and her own, although she was completely aware that there was no one to blame for this mess but herself. And she fancied that Blaise had known that too, and that was why he'd let her live.

Let her live in misery, that is. Because a few years ago, when she'd realized what she'd done, when she'd realized what she'd ruined, she'd very nearly gone utterly insane. All she could think of after that was Draco, was of what she'd had and discarded heartlessly, but it had taken almost three years to build up her courage enough to face him. She finally had, and she'd told her family of her decision, which had nearly gotten her disowned, but she was an adult now, and they couldn't stop her. Nothing could stop her. She would see him again, _really_ see him and not his pictures in the papers, and she would apologize for all that she was worth.

"We're here."

The magically projected voice of the driver sounded inside the carriage, and she took several deep breaths before getting out. The only reason she'd been allowed inside the wards was because of her connections at the Ministry, and all they'd told Draco was that one of their associates was stopping by for business, so could he please accommodate their wishes and let the coach in? He'd agreed, since he had nothing to fear from them, nor anything to fear at all really, and there she was, staring up at an impossible creation of marble and mortar. The Manor was bloody _huge_. Eight stories high and spanning over a dozen acres, it seemed to stretch on forever, blocking out the sun.

It was black, black and silver and trimmed in green, and trees spread out to every side around her for miles upon miles, full of creatures that she wanted no contact with whatsoever. The Ministry officials had warned her about the place, had warned her not to let her shields down for a second, had warned her that the people inside and the guards around it were more dangerous than any creature she might encounter, though some argued that the guards were more creature than human. Starting towards the enormous ebony front doors, she had to pass under a lattice way of black, thorny roses that dripped thick droplets of what appeared to be blood, staining her robes and hair.

Then, finally, she was standing before those doors, her heart pounding madly, and after several more deep breaths, she lightly touched the silver dragon head mounted on the right one. She couldn't hear any chimes or anything of the sort inside, not that she'd expected to, and she waited anxiously, fighting the urge to bite her nails to the quick. It was almost ten minutes before the door creaked open, and only her determination had kept her from leaving before then. Well, that and the roses that had grown across the open awning behind her, barring her way unless she wanted to cut her way through, if that even would have been possible. She doubted it.

"Can I help you?" A butler intoned neutrally, and she started when she saw that he was transparent. A ghost. They had a fucking ghost butler. Sweet Merlin.

"I'm here to see the Master of the Manor. He was expecting…" She paused, because he definitely wasn't expecting _her_. "He was expecting a delegate from the Ministry, I believe."

"Right this way." The ghost said in the same colorless tone, and opened the door a bit wider, enough to let her through.

As soon as she was inside, the thought that she was in _Draco's_ house after all of these years superceded everything else, and she barely noticed the rich furnishings and elegant decorations, the grand moving murals and the priceless antiques and artifacts, one of which could bring in at an auction more than most people made in years. But she _did_ notice when they stopped next to a sitting room done in dark, primary shades, like most of the rest of the Manor was. Because a woman about her age was lounging on a divan next to another woman and a man, and she couldn't help but recognize all three instantly. They seemed to do the same.

"What the fuck is she doing here?" Anton, a tall, dark-haired, Slytherin alumni that was close friends with Draco and Blaise asked, his beautiful face contorted with dislike and disgust.

"Is there a problem, my lord?" The ghost asked, more feeling in his voice that time, a sense of respect that he hadn't shown her. "She's from the Ministry, and the Master mentioned an appointment earlier."

Anton sneered. "Yes, there's a fucking problem. If—"

But the woman next to him stopped him with a small hand on his, her fire-red hair glinting in the torchlight like spun blood, her charcoal eyes seeming almost black in the low light. Ginny was absolutely gorgeous, and no male or female on the planet could dispute that. But what was she doing here? She couldn't possibly…All of a sudden, she felt very, very ill. What if Ginny…What if…No. No, he wouldn't. He couldn't have found someone else, especially not _her_. Not the Weasley who'd been named an outcast from her family, the Weasley who'd taken to the Slytherins just as she'd left them. No. No, no, no. She simply refused to believe it.

Padma was the other woman on the opposite side of Anton, and she was curled up next to him like an obedient dog, although she was aware that the woman was much more than that. She was their soul-slave, but they didn't treat her like one. They treated her like royalty, like something to be cherished and protected and pampered. And they'd given her power, power to keep her safe incase she was ever separated from them, since she'd given up her own when she'd made her sacrifice. Though looking at her now, it didn't seem much of a sacrifice as she watched her sip red wine older than most people's great-grandparents, clad from head to foot in the finest silk.

"What are you doing here, truly?" Ginny demanded in a soft, yet commanding, voice, and she thought about not answering her out of spite, but then thought better of _that_ when Anton snarled and flashed sharp fangs. What the fuck?

"I'm here to see Lord Malfoy, nothing more."

Padma laughed, and she felt like strangling her. "Liar, liar, liar."

"You're drunk." She said scornfully, and Padma laughed that tinkling laugh again.

"Drunk? I'm not drunk. But check back in about an hour if you're still alive, and _then_ I'll be drunk."

"You need not answer to _her_, Padma dearest." Ginny said scathingly, reaching over Anton and running pale fingertips over the other woman's face.

When they passed those wine-stained lips, she swore she saw a pink tongue dart out lovingly, while Padma and Ginny both had dark eyes that were suddenly smoky, and it seemed that they'd forgotten about her completely. A mahogany head appeared from nowhere, before she realized that it had come from underneath Padma's flowing robes, and it was soon followed by a slender body. Brandy eyes opened, blinking sleep from them in a flash, and she was suddenly face-to-face with Pansy for the first time since she had destroyed everything. The last time that she had seen those honey eyes, they'd been laughing with her.

But now, now they were glaring for all they were worth; as if she were Voldemort Resurrected (again), and she flinched under that hate-filled stare. It took a stronger person than she was not to back down from Pansy Parkinson when she looked like that, like she was itching to draw her wand and make you scream until your heart fluttered its last flutter and your eyes closed in eternal sleep. Stumbling back a step, she watched nervously as Pansy rose effortlessly, her own silk robes swishing softly around her. But the woman did nothing more, and she thought that she might get to leave, but then she spoke.

"It was very stupid of you to come here."

"Probably."

"Most definitely. If he doesn't kill you, I will."

"Draco won't kill me." She replied, though her voice wasn't as sure as she would have liked it to be. Pansy simply smiled a nasty little smile, shook her head, and spoke once more.

"Then by all means, go to him. But I would knock if I were you."

There was something cryptic and vindictive and pleased in those words, something that shook her up inside and made her feel like her air was being cut off, but she nodded back and followed the ghost as he started floating forward once more. Her last sight of them was Ginny kissing Anton and Pansy trailing slick lips down Padma's throat, and then she was past the doorway and moving for a staircase. She went up and up, and it seemed that there were many more floors than eight, and she wondered if she would ever stop climbing, if this was her punishment. To be forever close to him, yet so far away. What could be more of a hell than that?

Finally, eventually, they reached the top, and it was still a very long walk to wherever the ghost was headed. But she didn't care, because she fancied that she could feel him nearby, and everything else was gray noise. The ghost stopped in front of a set of double doors almost as large as those in the front of the building, and she froze. Could she do this? Could she really, truly stand before him once more after all that she had done? Did it matter if she could? No, because this was Draco she was talking about, and he was worth whatever debasement she had to endure. Forgetting herself, forgetting everything, she flung open the door, never thinking to knock.

If she'd known…If she'd only known what she would see, she would have. She truly hadn't thought that he'd taken another; she truly _had_ thought that he would wait for her for eternity, as she would him. But he was doing anything but waiting, sprawled out across a huge obsidian desk, his mercury hair fanned out underneath him and trailing over the sides to brush the floor as some bitch rode him for all she was worth, her shapely back riddled with bloody claw marks that were deep, so deep. Everything on the desk and around it had been demolished, as if a whirlwind made up of passion and ecstasy had consumed all.

Everything had been knocked carelessly to the floor of off the top of that black glass, ink wells and crystal tumblers lying in sparkling pieces next to unheeded rolls of parchment and a cracked lantern made of painted porcelain. Tiny, itsy-bitsy bits of fabric seemed to have rained all over everything, looking to have been ripped into shreds by something much sharper than human fingernails. Her eyes lifting again as strangled moans became like a continuous punch in the stomach, she saw that his ivory hands were on her alabaster hips, and her sable hair was as long as his, nearly to her knees. Or, it would have been had she been standing.

As it was, she was straddling him, her legs bent underneath her to either side as she lifted herself back up and slammed herself back down with enough force that the sturdy desk seemed likely to shatter, just as _her_ heart was as she stood in that doorway, motionless as grief and disbelief overwhelmed her. And still the woman rode him, rode him until his moonlit eyes were rolled back in his head and he was screaming, screaming in a way that he never had with _her_, and the bitch was screaming too, screaming as her lithe body convulsed and her black nails raked down his chest, leaving bloody furrows in that perfect skin.

But most importantly, and most horrible, was the fact that they were both glowing, glowing like dark stars, as if shadows had come up from inside them and split through their skin, creating a halo of flickering light all around them, on the desk, on the walls, on the floor, on the ceiling…It was stunningly beautiful even as it was like a million tiny swords straight into her heart; for that glow, that special afterglow that only mages can produce during coupling, could mean one thing and one thing only. She was gazing at soulmates, true soulmates, and it was like a bucket of ice water over her head, pouring down her spine in freezing tendrils.

Then the bitch was sinking slowly, oh-so-slowly, until their bodies were pressed flush together, and Draco lifted strong arms that were suddenly weak and wrapped them securely around her, as if afraid that she would vanish. Had he ever done that with _her_? No. Had he ever marked her like this whore was marked? No. Had he ever looked so wild and free as he buried himself inside of her? No. And as those silver eyes reopened, gazing at a face that she couldn't see for all of that jet-colored hair, she gasped and nearly fainted, because she knew that look of besotted love all too well. She'd seen it in the mirror countless times when thinking of him.

And had he ever, even once, even _halfway_, looked at _her_ like that? Fuck no. She realized suddenly that he had spoken truer than she'd known that day when he'd said that she'd never truly had him. She wondered vaguely through her heartbreak and distress how Blaise felt about this one, if he liked her, if he respected her, if he really accepted her. She doubted it. She doubted that he would ever accept _anyone_ in Draco's arms, in his bed, and she wondered if he would just become a sort of eunuch and try to get Draco to join him. Or if he'd stand to the side and let little whores like this one come along and sweep his silver prince off of his feet.

The woman sighed, a lovely, content sound that was like rustling leaves, and she wondered if she could get a dagger in her back before Draco could stop her. Probably not. But she would be damned if she didn't try. She had nothing left now, _nothing_, because she knew that she couldn't best that look in her love's eyes, knew that she couldn't copy it or substitute for it. He was lost to her, really lost, and all she had left to take to her grave was this bitch's blood on her hands. Moving forward in a burst of speed, she had her boot knife in hand and was a step behind them when the whore lifted her eyes and turned her head, and she felt her blade drop from suddenly nerveless fingers.

"No." She mumbled, frantically trying to back away and falling on her arse hard enough to bruise while both sets of familiar eyes locked onto her and she discovered her mistake. It was no whore in his lap; it was no nameless face that stared at her so triumphantly. It was fucking _Blaise_.

"Well, hello. How nice of you to join us." He drawled, and she whimpered and kept scooting back with her hands as he rose like some graceful god, all flawless lines and taut muscles slick with sweat and blood.

He slid off of Draco after bestowing him with a slow, drugging kiss, and his bare feet hit the marble floor soundlessly, not the faintest whisper rising from his descent. He seemed completely unconcerned with his nudity, but when you looked like a priceless painting come to life, what need had you for modesty? Draco stretched before sitting up, apparently unconcerned with his own as well, but she was…no, _had been_, used to that. But she was completely unprepared for the havoc that just the sight of him would wreak on her, and shivers shot from head to toe as she drank him in with her eyes. Gods, he was breathtaking.

He was almost the exact same build as Blaise, sleek and trim, corded muscles playing under snowy flesh and making one want to ravish him on the spot. All of that Christmas-tinsel hair fell around him like a living cloak, swishing back and forth as if moved by an invisible wind, and both were still crackling with that dark, dark light. Draco moved to Blaise's side almost unconsciously, and it wasn't until Blaise saw her eyes on him that he finally cared about clothes. Summoning two robes without so much as a wand or a word, he wrapped one around Draco first, every touch reverent and worshipful. Only then did he cover himself and speak again.

"What is it that you're here for?" He asked, his attention barely on her as Draco pulled all of that metallic hair out of the back of the robe before taking his hand. "You're not welcome here."

Those words seemed to go straight through her, slicing and dicing so very many vital things as they did so, and as she looked up at him, as she looked at the one that she had never been able to equal up to, the one that had always held so many parts of Draco that she could never touch, never reach, everything crumbled into dust. Cold, gray dust that swirled in her stomach, making her feel nauseous, so nauseous, and that clogged her throat, leaving an acrid, stinging taste upon her tongue. She had never, _ever_, hated anyone as much as she did him in that moment. And that loathing gave her courage, just as it had given her courage all of those years ago.

"It is not your place to tell me if I am welcome." She spat, her fists clenching so hard that she could feel her knuckles scraping against the marble, could feel her fingernails digging bloody crescent moons into her palms. "This is not your home."

"Oh," Draco crooned, something queer and strange in his hooded eyes, "but it _is_." His words were for her, but those eyes were all for Blaise, just as devout as the other's were, and she realized that the reason she was seeing so much from them was not just her own churning emotions slowly killing her and giving her a sharper perception, but that they were still so calm and relaxed that they really couldn't have cared less about her being there. And that was impossible to swallow, impossible to ignore, like the cruelest of insults being shoved straight in her face and ground into the skin like broken glass.

"No." She repeated, her mind working in overdrive as she tried to find a way to escape yet again, to make this not be happening. It was like some disastrous nightmare come to life, chomping slowly on her soul, and she couldn't wake up, couldn't breathe, couldn't get away.

"Yes." Blaise hissed, his eyes coming back to her, his words dripping pure, unadulterated venom. "You left him, left this, but I never would. I waited patiently while he played, waited patiently for him to come to the realization that I had years ago, but I did not wait patiently once you had attempted to break him. You and your sweet body and callous words, you and all of your layers of virulent deception and shallowness. You come back now, seeking what you so thoughtlessly lost, but you are too late, much, much too late."

"No." Why couldn't she seem to say anything else? Why did she feel so bereft, so broken?

"Years too late, a lifetime too late." Draco added in that addicting, seductive voice, crouching down beside her so gracefully that it made her wish to weep, which she would have been doing long before had she not felt so frozen inside, had she not felt so dead. He brushed a lock of her brown hair back behind one ear, but there was none of the careful attention in the movement as there had used to be, even as she reacted as she always had, nearly moaning from the contact.

"Draco…Draco, _please_…"

"No." He said, his voice so low and throaty that she barely heard it, and when she met those soul-stealing eyes, they glanced away as Blaise made some small movement, and they filled with something wicked and adoring, as if the world itself stood before him in all of its dark glory, a world of midnight hair and abyssal cerulean eyes. He seemed to completely forget about her though she was less than a foot from him, and she spoke, trying to drag his awareness back to her and away from that angelic face, that alluring body.

"Draco—"

"I thought, once, that I loved you as one is supposed to love their lifemate." His gaze never left Blaise, but she knew who he was speaking to, and her heart stopped mid-beat, hanging on his every word. "I thought, once, that I only loved him as one does a friend, a beloved brother. I thought, once, that he could never see me as anything more, either, that he could never possibly feel that odd draw between us. But I didn't love you, I never even said that I did, and I don't only love him like a friend, although he is still, above all else, that. And he _did_ see me as more, he _did_ feel that pull, that invisible tug, and he figured out what I was so wary of long before I did."

"No. Gods, no." But he wasn't listening to her, wasn't aware of her horror. Or if he was, it didn't show because he didn't care.

"It was _you_, actually, that made me finally see what had always been right in front of me. It was you, as you got in your final jibes, that made me see what an utter fool I had been. I went looking for him, so many things wishing to spill from my lips, and I'd known that even if he rejected me, refused me, he wouldn't turn from me. And that meant…" He stopped, and looked back at her as if just only seeing her in that moment, and the look of repulsion on his face scorched what was left of her spirit. He jerked away from her, somehow still making the erratic, impulsive movement lissome and lovely, as if he'd meant to react in such a strong way, even though she knew that he hadn't. "That meant everything."

"I…" But her voice seemed stuck in her throat as she replayed those words that she'd spoken, words that had done the last thing she'd wanted and shoved them even closer together; replayed her own back turning to him, figuratively and literally, her face set and hard and unfeeling, even though she'd felt so _much_...

"We are to be bound."

So strange that five words, five small words, could hold her death and dissolution.

"You…you're _what_?" She choked out, her heart starting again, but it was not fast and crazed, rather slow and sluggish instead, as if it knew what those words had meant as well as she did.

"We are to be bound in a month's time." Blaise answered for him, moving toward her like some predator from hell, and she realized that this _was_ hell, her own personal hell, and that _nothing_ got worse than this. "I wish for nothing more than to kill you, to see your blood run oh-so-very-red over my hands, but I think that living will be the worst torment for you, living each day and knowing that he was never really yours, and that he never will be, not in this life or the next. Because he will be bound to me, and I to him, and nothing can break those blood vows, those soul vows, as well you know. He will be lost to you, lost forever in my embrace, lost but never forgotten. And you will never forget, will you, Parvati?"

No, she would never forget. She would never forget the sight of them coupling, a sight that was permantly branded into her very core, never forget what her envy had cost her. Not even in the afterlife, for the Dark Gods made special places for people that crossed their favored children. But that didn't stop her from turning the twin of her discarded blade against herself, didn't stop the world from going black, didn't stop her last vision being their lips meeting in perfect synchronicity, caring not a whit that she was bleeding and dying on their bedroom floor. She wouldn't live with her agony, _couldn't_ live with it, but he was right. He was always right.

Because she would never, not in the birth and death of a thousands suns, forget it or be free of it.

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**Please review!!!!**

Well, this had been eating at me for a while, but my other story, 'Unexpected', took precedence over most else for a very long time, and I only just had the time to jot this down. I hope you all liked it, and some of you may have noticed a guest appearance by one of my OC's from that aforementioned story. I just couldn't resist, lol. :) Now…review!!!!


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